I Deserve It
by LardenceLover
Summary: Justin/Brian. Could take place pretty much any time after the bashing.


Author: Lardence_Lover

Title: I Deserve It

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Brian/Justin (As if there IS another pairing…)

Notes: I'm aware that the incident where Brian pulls the two dancers off a half naked Justin happened BEFORE Justin's gay bashing, but for the sake of his fic, the times of the events were switched. Deal with it. Or skip over it. Either way. :) Or, as Sarah said, pretend history has repeated itself.

This is my first real venture into QAF fiction. Hope you like it. If not, tell me to go back to my old subjects. Lol.

I can feel the blood pounding in my ears, but nothing could be heard over the insistent throbbing of the beat that's driving me. My blood's boiling and I can feel the steam of it escaping through my skin. I turn my head one way and notice the sweat flying from my hair, look down and realise that—like more than half the people here—I look like I've just gotten out of a dive in a pool.

Not that I give a fuck.

My body's controlling itself, or more accurately allowing the music to control it, and I'm moving without having to think about it. Dancing comes easy to me; in all its simplicity, it's basically showing joy through physicality. And I know more than enough about that. Some would think a bit too much maybe, but that's bullshit. Joy is joy, anyway you look at it and anyway you display it. I use my art, my words, my body, my thoughts, my fucking _soul_, to express it and since when have I given one shit what anyone thinks of me at any rate?

Strobe lights flashing—blue, red, green, blue, yellow, purple, blue, blue, what the fuck is that one colour called again, oh and _that's_ definitely blue—and I swear to fucking God I'm swimming through this tide of bodies like Moses parting the Red Sea. I'm too drunk to care that I'm too drunk. I'm hot as well—too fucking hot. I pull my shirt off over my head, illicit some very interested looks from a couple dancers surrounding me, and try not to look like I'm lost because I'm not sure if I am. But this fucking light won't stay one Goddamn colour. Blue, red, yellow, orange, blue, green, blue, purple, blue, blue… of fuck, that's green… I can't fucking tell. Stay blue. Or green. Or red. I don't fucking care, just _something_ sit still because I can't anymore…

_Too much, too much._

I keep moving—have to keep moving—ignoring the rub of other people's body parts against me from all ends. Jumping up and down, feeling the warm air move over my sweltering, sweat-slicked body, and lift my arms up. Something jumps in the intensity of the music and I think of how I used to turn up the CD player in my room to drown out the world and now I feel like I'm still there, where I came from, drowning out the world by turning the volume up… blue, green, purple, blue, red, blue, blue… Daft Punk in my ears, in my head, in my heart, and I couldn't sit still if someone put a gun to my fucking head.

_Freedom._

I have a sudden urge to paint, which is ridiculous because I'm here and my paints are somewhere else—at Debbie's, right—and besides, I'm no good anymore, not since the attack. And the lights, those fucking lights: blinding, a blinding pain, blue light… blue blinding pain. He's hit me. The fucker's hit me, that crazy fuck, and I'm going to be in the hospital and Brain, what about Brian? Tell him it's not his fault, it's mine…

The bass rattles my spine and I blink, wondering where I've gone and how I've ended up here alone. Alone? How the fuck am I alone in a place like this? Blue, purple, yellow, red, blue, blue, orange, blue, green, white—that's a new one, isn't?—blue, red, yellow, blue, blue, blue. So alone. Pathetic boy. Poor little queer. Stupid little faggot. Who's that blond boy?

_Good question, man, good question._

"Hey, baby."

I don't ask who he is, just dance, and he grinds with me; rhythm tight and movement fluid like water. Blue, fucking blue light—ignore it—move lower, don't stop, I love this song, I love you, I want to go home. What is home? Not with parents, not here. So what's home to you now, little queer boy? Who's home to you now?

_Brian. Brian's home to me._

Brian's face, eyes hard and cold, lips pulled thin in annoyance, the air around him filled to the brim with tension.

_We're not "together."_

Oh, fuck, I screwed up again. No matter what, I'm either too young or too gay or too sensitive or too stupid or too easy or just too much all around. And the blinding white—wait, I thought it was blue—pain is back again, this time I can see it and I remember. I remember waking up one time and I remember him sitting there, watching me. I remember how uncomfortable the hospital bed was, how I hated the fucking smell of the place, but I was too tired. So tired and I fell asleep before I could say anything, before I could prove I'd caught him giving a damn, and even if I told him now, he'd just deny it and I'd think I was crazy. The blue light won and I went back into the darkness it brought. And I'm still in the darkness now. I'm _still_ in the Goddamn darkness, aren't I?

I can feel him, whomever he is, pressing against the back of me, and my body answers, rubbing into him shamelessly. Then there's another dancer facing me and even though he's looking right at me while he grinds and I'm too fucking wedged between them to do anything but follow their rhythm, I can't see the guy's face and I want to see his face, but I know it won't be Brian's, so I guess I'm better off this way. Someone else is probably seeing his face right now, and even as I dance probably the best I've ever danced before, I want to throw up, and I don't think it's from the alcohol.

_We're not "together."_

_Too much, too much…_

_We're not "together." We'll never be "together."_

That song by what's-her-name Minogue, and I need to forget the light, and I need to forget the pain, the pain on the outside and even more importantly, the pain on the inside

_Brian is home to me._

so I get rougher, harder and God, do they ever respond, these two faceless wonders with the beautiful bodies. My hands on the hips of the one facing me, fingers sliding up and down wet, dripping skin, and feeling the hands of the one behind me all over my back and ass, and I know I should stop this, every fiber in my body wanting to and every fiber of my body unable to end it. Fuck me, I shouldn't be here. I don't know why, since I'm technically "allowed" in every sense, but… someone save me. I can't make it go away anymore. Red, blue, yellow, blue, blue, green, purple, orange, red, blue. Someone make this stop. Make the pain go away. Make my ability come back. Erase time. Make him love me. Make him love _just_ me. Make him be with me.

_We're not "together."_

Never. We'll never be, he says. And I normally wouldn't let that stop me. I'm a determined son of bitch, stubborn as all hell, but I know him and I know his reasons and I know that even though they're the fucking stupidest reasons in the world, I can't argue them. I know him and I know he means it. We won't be together. At least not with either of us the way we are.

But know one thing. No one is like him. These men, these things, touching me now, hustling me, crushing me, caressing me, they aren't him. They don't do it like him. And that's when I know he loves me. And that just makes it hurt more because he loves me and I love him, but he's wasting our fucking time. Time that someday, maybe, we might want back.

Why won't anyone fucking save me from this? I know I look like I like it, but can't anyone see the pain in my eyes? Don't they care? Don't I mean shit to anyone? Aren't I more than a nice piece of fucking ass? Or is the blue, sharp, relentless light even too dark for anyone to know?

Or am I really that disposable? Replaceable?

_This isn't Freedom. This is prison. Fucking prison._

Blue.

Blue.

Blue.

… Black. Something blocking me from the lights. And the bodies surrounding me are gone. I'm confused, I'm alone, and what the fuck is this, there's a new body now, and I know it like I know the back of my own fucking hand. I know the gentle weight of his arms around my waist, the teasing press of his leg in between mine when we dance, the taste of his lips, and I can see the face. I can see it and I know it. Better than I know my own.

It'll be mine. If I have to kill for it. If I have to wait my whole life, that smile, those eyes, will be mine. All of it. All of him.

_Mine._

"Don't let trash like that touch you. You're too good for them."

And that's all he says. But it's all that's needed. No matter what he does or says, he will not tell me no. I won't stand for it. Because without this, I'm just caught in the light and then the cold darkness that follows. He won't tell me who to be and what to do. He'll let it happen, or I'll ram it down his Goddamn throat. Because this is too good. I won't let him tell me to stop.

I open my eyes, almost lazily, savour the feeling of his lips brushing my cheek, the sensation of his breath on my neck and the dark, troubled and absolutely gorgeous look he casts down at me with those eyes. I look down and—

_Blue. Fuck. Blue._

—And I smile. His shirt. His shirt is blue. And I thought… and his _shirt_ is blue. I'm right. I know I am. And I know _this_ is right. I believe in love at first sight just as much as he does, (not at all), but I did know from the moment I saw him that one day—very soon—I would fall in love with him, eventually. So I'll make it happen. I'll make "together" a reality, instead of my dream. I have to.

Because when I'm with him, the blue goes away.

And besides… I fucking deserve it.


End file.
